I thought it was just a dying animal dragging trash across four lanes of freezing asphalt on Highway 220.
The news about Gabe and Silas Finch gnawed at me. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus. The only thing I could do was drive. I took my rig out, the massive engine a familiar rumble beneath me, hoping the open road would clear my head.
It was broad daylight on Route 220, the winter sun a weak glow through the gray clouds. I was running an empty trailer north, a routine run I’d done a thousand times. I looked into my passenger-side mirror, checking my blind spot.
And then I saw it.
The phantom hound, the same emaciated black dog, sat calmly in my sleeper berth. Its amber eyes, bright as burning coals, stared straight ahead.
A shiver, not of cold but of pure dread, ran down my spine. The temperature inside my warm cab plummeted instantly. My breath plumed out in front of me, thick and white. The steering wheel, usually warm from my hands, felt like a block of ice.
“Hey!” I yelled, my voice cracking. I slammed on the air brakes, the rig groaning to a halt on the shoulder.
I whipped around, my heart pounding against my ribs. The sleeper berth was empty. Just my rumpled blanket and a stray map. No dog. No glowing eyes.
I stared at the spot for a long moment, my mind reeling. Was I losing it? The stress, the lack of sleep, the betrayal… was I imagining things?
My truck’s GPS unit, usually a steadfast navigator, suddenly flashed. A new route popped up, overlaid on my current path. The destination was ‘Bedford County Archives.’
“What the hell?” I muttered. I hadn’t programmed anything. The GPS was always reliable, always for work. It had never acted like this.
I checked the time. It was late afternoon. The Archives would be closing soon.
A strange compulsion, stronger than my skepticism, urged me on. It was like the dog, or whatever force was behind it, was guiding me. I gripped the icy steering wheel and pulled back onto the highway, following the phantom route.
When I finally pulled into the parking lot of the Bedford County Archives, Elena’s beat-up sedan was already there. She stood by the entrance, bundled in a heavy coat, a triumphant look on her face.
“Took you long enough,” she said, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “I had a feeling you’d show up here.”
She held open the heavy glass door. Inside, past the stoic security guard, a small, old metal deed box sat on a dusty table, pulled from cold storage. It was labeled, in faded script, “Santos Family – Pine Ridge Timber Indenture – 1994.”
My hands felt clammy. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was more than just bad luck. The hound, the cold, the reroute… it was all leading to this. The truth was waiting inside that box.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours